Lingual Masochist
by telekineticBURN
Summary: Well, there's always priesthood. [ DawnAndrew ]
1. Danger : Low Voltage

**Lingual Masochist**

Author : Renny (telekineticBURN)  
Rating : T (language, mild violence)  
Spoilers : Angel 5.11 "Damage", 5.20 "The Girl in Question",BTVS season 7 (general)  
Summary : There are heroes and villians, epic love stories and epic battles, and then there is the quiet in between.

**A/N** : **This is told out of sequence** - the chronology is pretty clear but it starts in the middle of the story. It is sectioned into eight parts.

Hope you like it.

**4. Danger : Low Voltage **

They're gonna ask you things, baby, and you'd better be prepared.

Are you good enough? Man enough? (_Straight_ enough?) Why do I want you? What was I thinking? Was I on drugs? Are you on drugs? '_Are you two on drugs right now!_'

Fast and thick and Spike will want to rip your spine out through your hat. Territory, Andy, your mouth's been on his Nibblet.

I've just said that out loud and you're looking at me strange. Yeah, that did sound really wrong, and we're laughing but you know what I meant.

We've been caught red-handed. Unfair, sure, that you get all the blame - your hand but my shirt, am I right? - but I'm Dawnie and I'm innocent and I'm impressionable. They'll call you an idiot and laugh about it right up until you do something stupid like kiss me. Red-handed in Giles' office (note, that encyclopedia will have to be burned) and there's nothing that will save you now.

"Is there any way out of this?" you ask me, though maybe you don't intend it as it sounds.

"Well, there's always priesthood," I mutter, and brush invisible lint from your shoulder. "I guess celibacy doesn't sound so bad compared to standing up to Buffy."

It's evil, and it's easy, the way I can make you stutter. "I'm not afraid of Buffy," you tell me, voice edging falsetto. "She may be Xena, honey, but she's only a guest star in '_Hercules and the Amazon Women'_."

Sometimes you're elocution really is appalling. There's a _woosh _as the reference goes sailing over my head. I rarely understand your words, but I love them. Lingually masochistic? There are worse relationship roadblocks.

It was two hours ago when I dragged you into Giles' study and hopped up onto the desk. You were clueless. You'd asked me, halting, what was wrong with the chairs, and then you were aghast at the wrinkles left in your pressed white collar when I hauled you in closer.

You'd just worked up the courage to cop a feel when Buffy breezed in and gave a convincing impersonation of Christina Aguillera circa '99. The banshee wail was impressive. Your excuses were not. You beat feet out of the room as fast as your lame-ass mock-Italian loafers would carry you, mumbling at Giles that this wasn't what it looked like.

'_This_'? This all started last year when you and Giles stopped by en route to Los Angeles. Your perm, my ruination. But you remember as well as I, so we'll save the synopsis for story hour downstairs.

"There is no way you can pin this on me," I point out. "What, I overpowered you? Took you against your will?"

"I didn't have a chance," you mumble, morose. "You're Elektra to my Murdock. I'm Marguerite Moreau to your Lestat, Townsend casting notwithstanding."

Crap. I think that just made sense. "Stop being decipherable," I command. "It scares me."

You lean in, grinning, and raise your hands in mock intimidation. "There's no escaping it. You're a geek now. I've infested your brain!"

I toss it back at you. You were right, after all. No chance. "So I guess we're stuck with each other then. We're foreigners on earth, nobody else speaks our language. Infested, alright. Remind me to give Buffy a call when we get to Vegas."

You stutter. "I didn't mean –"

I find I like you apoplectic. "Call me Dolly, 'cause you're my man. Make like a hockey player, shoot that puck in."

You blink once, then twice. Progress, progress. "You'd let me–"

There is a furious knocking at the door. Buffy's cacophonous voice rang out, "You two better not be doing anything gross! A sister knows!"

Call MasterCard, her timing is priceless.

The second time tonight, you spring away from me under the flush of Buffy's glare. "I didn't do anything!" you shout. "Look, hands in the air! Hands in the air!"

I smile wanly at her. "See? He's irresistable."

She shoots you a withering look. The brief moment alone we had while Buffy gathered the quorum is over. Giles is in the doorway, flanked by Xander and Willow (who's flanked by Kennedy, yes, everyone die of shock), and none of them look particularly happy. Perplexing, I spy The Immortal hovering in the hallway.

Vampires, demons, magic. What really mystifies me is why my dating life must be placed before the goddamn Senate.

"Dawnie," Buffy says calmly, "sit. Andrew, stand."

I take a mincing seat on the couch. Xander, behind everyone's back, lifts his eyepatch and grins. It's a macabre joke. He says he's winking at me incognito when he does that. Like a lot of things, I love him for it.

"Now that everybody's here," Buffy announces, "I think you two need to explain what I saw in the study this evening."

What, a book? I know it's shocking, Buffy, but they won't harm you.

I just barely don't say that aloud. You should be proud of me. Strangely, though, I think you already are.

"It was nothing," you said hurriedly. "Dawn was just... um... choking. On... uhm... innocence."

They aren't buying this. But they are enjoying it.

"I mean, Dawn was just… I was…" Then you go on entirely the wrong track. "See, Buffy, when a boy likes a girl, there's –"

"Oh, dear god," Giles sighes, glass-cleaning commencing full tilt, and Buffy looks ready to truncate you.

Decapitation. Look it up.

Willow smiles, and I wonder if maybe we aren't collecting some allies. "Dawnie and Andrew made with the smoochies?" she asks calmly.

"No," you stammer. "No, my intentions are entirely honorable. Dawn was merely..."

You can't finish that sentence and nobody wants to hear you try. You grind to a halt and seemingly deflate.

"This isn't what it looks like," you repeat. "This is a misunderstanding. This is that unfortunate '01 Othello remake."

"Re-imagining," I correct. And now you begin to destroy me.

"It was just a one-time thing, Buffy, I swear," you babble, afraid of your own skin, and that breaks my heart, too. Idiot. "Like in _Wrath of Kahn_, Uhura in the stripper outfit? Completely not what it looked like."

And, unbidden, here come more movie references.

"It won't happen again, Giles. Like Clint and the prostitutes in _Unforgiven_ - totally not happening!"

Oh joy. Now your mind's stuck on hooker anologies. This will end well.

Your eyes turn wildly and catch mine. "Bonnie and Clyde, hey? Friend's, sure, but there ain't nothing there as far as Clyde's concerned."

"Because he was gay," I snipe.

"Because he was... manly. And felt no improper feelings toward Dawn. Bonnie. Damn." You sigh, scraping your blunt bitten fingernails through your dirty blond scalp. My fingers itch. (Look what you do to me, Andy.)

You're next reference is the last straw. Not that I understand any of it. "We were caught up in the moment. Farscape, episode 3.02, Chiana and Jothee? One time thing. She totally loves D'Argo!"

Spiteful, I've got a pop culture reference of my own: "I Know What You Did Last Summer," I tell you. "_Me_."


	2. Salt, No Leaf Clover

** 5. Salt ******

They have separated us. You are held prisoner in the armchair by the fire, policed by Giles and Kennedy, while Buffy has me cornered against the window.

"Just how long has this been going on?" she demands, and I glare down at her without the least bit of apology.

"Six months," I say aggressively. "Since Spike... came back."

If mentioning Spike hurts, hell if it ever _registers_, Buffy glosses it gracefully (always, what with The Immortal in the room). I wonder if she even remembers him, her beautiful dead soldier, and if she loves her new beau because of the vast difference between _never dying_ and _already dead_. Those aren't questions I can ask my big sister, Slayer Superior, and of course I can't ask her when she might finally stop running.

I've heard the heartache. I've heard the Cookie Dough line. I love her and I hate her sometimes.

"No," you suddenly say, and it startles me, because I didn't know you were listening and certainly not disagreeing. "Not six months."

I'll punch you, Andrew, I swear I'll -

"Way before that. _Years._" You shrug, and look sheepishly up at Giles. "When I wore a wire to spy on The First. She pulled the tape of my chest. That was... pretty much it for me."

Oh god.

You admitted it.

Buffy is aghast and agog - downright appalled. "_Years?_" she screeches. "You were boinking my little sister while we were fighting a _war?_"

"I believe you misconstrued his explanation, Buffy," Giles observes, steadily cleaning his glasses. I asked him once if he did that so at least he wouldn't have to look at our absurdity. I never did get an answer. "At any rate, when exactly would there have been _time_ for them to carry on a torrid affair?"

"Any time! He's _your_ Mini-Watcher, you tell me! He could have been defiling my baby sister every time you turned your back!"

"From _England?_" I shout. "Buffy, are you even hearing yourself? I mean, the geography _alone -_"

"But Dawnie, _Andrew?_" Buffy exclaims, and there's the crux of it. It's not the What so much as the Who.

I can't blame her. She doesn't know.

So I tell her.

** 1. No Leaf Clover **

Everyone was leaving. For once in my life, I wasn't being a bratty drama queen. Everyone meant _everyone_. Willow to Brazil, Xander to Africa, Faith to _Ohio_, and now Giles to England where he could drink more tea and wear more elbow patches. I wasn't spiteful. I was honest.

It had never occurred to me, a slap in the face, that you were leaving, too.

You're almost worse at goodbyes than I am. And back then I couldn't really stand you.

We'd come to Europe to round up Slayers (_always_ more of them, endless Chosen, _always_ special and beautiful and brave) three weeks ago and somehow I'd been enrolled in the local high school. Rome wasn't my idea, not for a second, and my Italian was scant at best.

You came to my room late, clothes rumpled and exhaustion in your face. Your short hair was sticking up at hilarious angles, so I rubbed at it, patted it down, when you collapsed onto my bed. It felt strange, almost surreal, because we'd never been close. Tucker's brother, I'd never really bothered to know you.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, switching off my computer, another book report that would remain unfinished because the book itself would remain indecipherable.

"_Morend in un posto sicuro_," you mumbled, because _your_ Italian comes effortless, and I can't remember exactly when it became such an easy thing for us to sit and breathe together. "We're leaving in a few hours. Early flight means early… something."

You were so tired you couldn't even think of an anology. I'd been bitchy to you all day, sucker-punched because it'd caught me by surprise that you would be in England while I was stuck in Rome. You'd been part of the scenery, wallpaper, since leaving (fleeing) Sunnydale and I felt so guilty for ignoring you accordingly.

"I'm worried," I blurted, and spun in a half-circle in my desk chair.

That got your attention, got you awake. "He'll be fine," you stammered. "I mean, the likelihood of Death by Falling Tome is, like, 10 times as unlikely as getting struck by lightning. I don't think –"

"I'm not talking about Giles," I snapped. "All the Slayers instantly know to watch out for prim British old guy. But _you_ – God, you're such an idiot."

That didn't come out as planned. I jumped from my chair and crawled onto the bed beside you. "Don't get dead," I told you. "And, oh _hell,_ don't get crippled. Because that'd be dead only with a running monologue."

"You are so mean to the disabled," you scolded, yawning. Then you opened your eyes, clear blue, and blinked. "'Don't get dead'," you echoed. "Sentimental verbage. Cool. Never had a friend like you, Dawn."

Back then, that was cutting it close. I scooted away an inch or two. I rolled my eyes and that was our goodbye. "I'm unique," I said wryly. "I'm thinking I might just take the Chosen tag, 'cause for the Slayers it doesn't really apply anymore. The whole, you know, plural thing."

"Nah, not Chosen," you decided, and frowned while you searched for a word. "Made. Accomplished. The _Achieved One_."

I had no idea what you were talking about and still have none. I settled for saying, "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

"'_Slapshot_' was a great movie."

"Touché."

You fell asleep in my room, on my bed, beside me. It didn't mean anything to either of us, not really, not _then_, so when I awoke with you halfway over France I felt no heartache, just boredom and annoyance and restlessness.

More than Willow, more than Giles, more than Xander and a little less than Spike, I missed you. Not like the others - I didn't need your guidance, I didn't need your protection, I didn't have a crush on you like I had all of Buffy's male friends (sorry, Willow), I didn't tag you with the abandonment issues I'd perfected over the years. Nah. I just missed teasing you, and listening to your voice without hearing the words.

Three months passed and I got over it. My Italian came on fast and I found a life for myself. Buffy located the Slayers and I took care of them, finding places for them, feeding them, letting them borrow (steal) my clothes, and explaining to them in very slow, admittedly condescending tones the facts about the Vamps and the Demons. It wasn't Watcher studies, not yet, but something very close. I wasn't central to the Slayer effort, but I was valuable, and it was enough.

(_But enough is just enough, you know what I mean?_)

You came back just in time to see me lose my footing.


	3. Shifting Sand, The Runaway

**Author's Note **Seven people need to be thanked :  
**Priscilla19** for pointing out that this pairing has no adorable "Spuffy"-ish name. We need to remedy this, people. … **justawriter **for thinking it's cute instead of just creepy. … **J** for loving it, and liking the idea of a teenage girl seducing an older boy. … The lovely **Joanna** for understanding Geek Speak – NEVER stop rotting your brain! That's what the aliens want you to do! … and a final thanks to **Scary Vampiress**, who was kind enough to threaten me.

-

**6. Sifting Sand **

"He was there," I tell her. "He _caught_ me."

"I was there!" Buffy argues. "When have I ever not been there for you? I mean, okay, there was the time I was _dead_ -"

"Buffy, don't –"

"and a couple times maybe I was busy _saving the world_ –"

I kick her shin. Hard.

She looks outraged. "I'm just trying to protect –"

"But this isn't _about_ you," I shout.

**2. The Runaway**

Their names were Caprice and Isabella. They spoke little English. Even that was somehow sexier than my handy bilingualism.

If that's even a word. English or Italian.

The bouncer almost threw me out. Humiliating, The Immortal had to be summoned to wave me in. He smirked and told me not to wait up for Buffy when I went home. Then he handed me off to Giles, who handed me off to you.

I felt stupid, out of place, at this refined gala thrown by The Immortal in apparent celebration of what an awesome and totally together guy he was. Buffy had been complaining of her lack of social mingling, and she wanted to wear a slinky dress.

So, correction. A refined gala in celebration of Buffy's fashion fetish.

I get Slayerettes and Latin translations. She gets a boy toy who spent thousands of dollars on a catered ball just to see her in Versace.

Then... there was you. Back from Europe and crashing at our apartment (burn, baby, burn, I never did find out why the locals torched your place to the ground), you'd grown up since Sunnydale. You were in a tux and your shaggy hairwas combed back.You offered me champagne and oh hell did I take it.

"Don't tell Buffy," you mumbled as I tossed it back like a shot. Bad idea. I exploded into a coughing fit.

"I regret nothing," I managed through the fit of coughs.

Suddenly the bimbos appeared, newly discovered Slayers (_special and beautiful and brave_) who Giles had assigned you to watch for the evening. Made sense, Watcher-In-Training, your job description. They were taller than me. I hated them.

I turned away and continued hacking, now into the face of an underpaid waiter. Caprice took your arm, and Isabella ran her long fingers through your hair. I _hated_ them.

I had no reason to, but I did.

Caprice tore herself away from vamping you just long enough to ask me, "_Siete in buona salute?_"

She was trying to be nice, asking if I was alright. My coughing finally subsiding, I matched her sunny smile. "Gag me with a pitchfork, hag," I answered.

She grinned brightly, following my expression when she couldn't follow my words. Isabella rang in with, "_Ragazza piccola dolce_."

'Sweet little girl'. You met my eyes, cringing, because I guessed you sensed that I was about to initiate a smackdown. "You look great, Dawn," you said clumsily, English for the first time tonight, music to my ears.

"You look like the prized customer of Cross-Dress for Less."

Everybody uses you as their whipping boy. Everybody. (And the excuse of 'we're only human' doesn't entirely apply.) You were an easy target that night. _Bullseye_. Regret it, sure, but I was no better.

You frowned tersely, annoyed. "You know, maybe society is going in the wrong direction. In the 1800s, girls your age weren't allowed to go to parties until their older sister was married."

"In the 1800s they treated crack addiction with opium."

You answered, inexplicably, with a wide smile. "Well, yeah, but – hey! Free leeches for every patient!"

I sighed, and slumped my shoulders, and stubbornly drained the last of my champagne glass. "Go away, Andrew," I said neutrally, and wandered to the veranda.

It was deserted. There was a reason. I leaned against the biting steel railing, freezing my ass off in my little black dress.

I wasn't exactly dressed to the nines. Like, fours, at best. While all the other girls (Buffy and the Slayers, _Caprice_ and _Isabella_) wore bright silk with low backs and bodices that probably came with a tab for easy ripping, I just hadn't had the energy. Honestly, I wanted to go home. There was the Slayer registry to be updated and those spells Willow wanted translated.

"Oh, bloody hell," I shouted into the empty night – echoes of Spike, I'd adopted his vocabulary. "I'm turning into Giles."

"I doubt Giles could pull of that dress," you said behind me.

If this were a teen dramedy you would have picked me out of a crowd. It was not. I was your friend, and I was alone. You were just doing the gallant thing.

(People forget that about you – always gallant. If chivalry is dead then you're its ghost. But nobody ever notices that about you, do they?)

I don't reply at first, off-balance, because you'd just said something moderately suave. I couldn't quite believe you'd come looking for me after the bitchfest in the ballroom.

So I grinned at you. "Did you just use a pick-up line?"

You raised your eyebrows at me in a way that was cute but mostly creepy. "I know milk is good for the body, but, baby, just how much do you drink?"

I giggled in disbelief, and shoved you lightly away. You were not intimidated in the least. "Excuse me, miss, but I seem to have lost my phone number. Could I borrow yours?"

I was laughing out loud by then, taking a step back, pointless as you advanced to match. "Is you're name Pepsi? 'Cause I've gotta have it!"

I smacked you upside the head. You answered with: "I'd marry your cat just to get in the family!"

"That's a nice shirt. Can I talk you out of it?" I shot back.

"Do you believe in love at first sight, or should I walk by again?"

"Can I buy you a drink, or do you just want the money?"

It was strangely addictive.

You were laughing just as hard by then, gripping the railing on either side of me as you struggled to maintain your suave smirk through the idiocy of this contest. "Wow, you with those curves, and me with no brakes…"

"I have only three months to live…"

"Is it hot in here or is it just you?"

"Remind me to move you to the top of my 'to do' list."

I'd like to say I didn't see it coming, I'm not that kind of girl, I'd never let it happen, but I would totally be lying. I'd noticed you leaning in sometime between your fake suggestive lip lick and my fake suggestive hair flip. Now I'd uttered my last and worst pick-up line and I could feel your warm uneven breath on my skin.

Even back then. Even back then you couldn't think coherently with me closer than five feet. Woot, woot. Haltingly, you stuttered another line. "Excuse me, do you have a Potion of Cure Light Wounds? I scraped my knee when I fell for you."

I blinked. "Was that a Dungeons and Dragons-themed come-on?"

"Little bit, yeah," you admitted, and, belatedly,you laughed and stepped away.

There were stars, millions of them, staring down at us. Through the glass doors of the veranda the party was rioting on, silent mannequins dancing past, and it was only you and me out there and it felt like safety.

Weird, huh?

"Shouldn't you be getting back?" I asked you, eyes on the skyline. "You're harem awaits."

You looked aghast. "No, no, no!" you burst, then recovered enough to be pompous. "No, Taller Summer Sister, I can assure you Caprice and Isabella are mere aqui-"

"I was kidding."

"Ah."

"Moron."

"Quite."

We fell into silence, an easy quiet untouched by the sound bleeding through the walls. You folded your elbows and rested them on the railing, and you frowned a bit, those thin, boyish lips of yours faintly pressed together. (And that was the first time I'd noticed your lips - in a flash I processed mouth, eyes, stature, _muscles_, and I felt nauseous and giddy with the awareness.)

"Rupert says I could be finished with my studies as early as next year," you said suddenly.

You turned then, catching your elbows on the railing and leaning forward into the black sky. Awkward, I turned to follow, shivering in the winter air. "What good is that?" I asked.

You balked. "You of all people should know, young Summers! The necessity for Watchers is desperate! The destruction of the Council coupled with the unprecedented plural-ness of Slayers makes for a great need of new Watchers! Someone to guide them, to teach them demonology, magical lore, fighting techniques – the list goes on!"

"Andrew," I answered calmly. "I _wrote_ the list. Literally. I took it down in shorthand while Giles dictated. I typed it in double-space. I picked out the stationary. I bought the frame that holds the list that hangs in Giles' office. But it's still bullshit."

(And, okay, 'fighting techniques'? _You?_ What, you're gonna teach 'em a wicked purse slap?)

You sputtered and spit and seethed, and I talked over you.

"You travel the world. You learn language after language. You see monsters and devils and never any angels, and soon, maybe as early as next year, Giles says you might complete your Watcher studies. Then, then you'll be ready to… travel the world, study languages, learn about magic and demons? Pardon my ignorance, but what's the difference?"

"There's a _lot_ of difference," you stammered. "That's like saying _The Hobbit_ is book one of a four-part trilogy. I mean, hello! _Tri-_logy!"

"Andrew, we both tutor new Slayers. We both translate spell text. We both log in the research hours so that the Slayers don't have to. So find me a definition of Watcher that doesn't mean 'Lowlife Book Wench' and maybe I'll be impressed when Giles deigns teaches you the super-secret handshake."

"There's a handshake!"

You fought disharmony like you fought a demon - halting, careful, and kind of nebbish. Giles was your hero, Professor X, Professor Dumbledore, and at that moment I wanted to believe in something as strongly as you did.

"You should trust yourself more, Andrew," I said suddenly, because my head never seemed know what I was about to say. "There's no use in trying to impress them."

"Just doing my part," you said, and shrugged. "We all of us have a job to do. Hey, you cold?"

You'd already begun pulling off your jacket, and that surreal awareness of _you and me_ cut through and jackknifed my gut. I took a step back.

"Cold? Yeah. Freezing. Like, lick me and your tongue would stick. I should get inside."

I did not just say that. I did not just say that, you did not offer me your jacket, and I did not get a mental image of any sort. I plead insanity, I plead not-guilty. Lock me up, I was just a stupid kid.

"… _Lick you_ …" you muttered dumbly, and your eyes went glassy. I waited for a sci-fi reference but none came. I'd really done it this time.

"Oh, look at the time." I glanced at my bare wrist. Whatever. "Gotta go, early morning tomorrow… morning. Goodnight."

You looked just as panicked as I. You cleared your throat loudly and plasteredon a smile."Yes, yes, up and at 'em! Face the day! Awake the moment the cock cro- rooster! I meant rooster!" You cringed. I cringed. Solidarity, woo.

"Goodnight!"

"Goodnight!"

It was a race to see who could get through the door first.

I won. I ran.

I didn't sleep for a second that night.


End file.
